Chapter 17
1295 Words
★NINA★
The dream always began with silence.
Not the soft kind that settles over a sleeping house. This silence felt wrong. It pressed against my ears until they rang and weighed heavily on my chest.
I stood in the hallway of my childhood home.
The walls were still painted that pale cream my mother insisted made everything brighter. The framed photographs were perfectly aligned. The grandfather clock at the end of the corridor ticked steadily, its pendulum swinging in slow, deliberate arcs.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I tried to move, but my feet felt glued to the polished wooden floor. My reflection stared back at me from the glass of a framed photograph—but it wasn’t right. My eyes looked older and hollow. It felt like they already knew what was coming.
Somewhere downstairs, a door creaked open. The sound slithered through the house.
“No,” I whispered.
But dreams never listened.
I tried to run toward my parents’ bedroom, but my legs wouldn’t respond. My body moved as if it were submerged in water while the ticking clock grew louder and more frantic. The air thickened, making it hard to breathe. The faint scent of my mother’s jasmine perfume lingered, mixing with something metallic.
Something absurd.
A crash echoed from below, followed by a gunshot.
The sound tore through the silence, and the walls seemed to tremble. I finally managed to move, stumbling down the hallway, my fingers dragging against the wall for balance.
“Dad!” I screamed.
My voice dissolved before it reached the staircase.
Another gunshot rang out, and the grandfather clock stopped.
I reached the top of the stairs and looked down.
I never wanted to look down.
The front door was wide open. Cold night air spilled into the house, making the curtains flutter like restless ghosts. The chandelier swayed slightly, casting dizzying shadows across the marble floor.
And there... there was blood.
It stretched across the white tiles in dark, spreading rivers.
My mother lay near the base of the stairs, her hand outstretched as if she had tried to crawl toward me. Her eyes were open, but they didn’t see me.
My father was closer to the door. His body was twisted in a way that didn’t look human anymore.
I tried to scream, but nothing came out.
I wanted to run to them. I wanted to kneel beside them and shake them, begging them to wake up. But my body locked again, paralyzed by terror so complete it felt like I was drowning.
Then a shadow tilted its head.
And suddenly it was closer.
Closer—
I bolted upright with a scream. The sound tore through the darkness of my room. My chest heaved violently. Sweat soaked my nightclothes. My hands clutched the sheets, twisting them tightly until my knuckles ached.
I didn’t realize I was still screaming until the door burst open. The impact of it slamming against the wall made me flinch.
Malachi stood in the doorway, gun raised, eyes sharp and deadly. For a split second, I thought I was still dreaming.
Barefoot, with dark sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and a black T-shirt stretched across his chest. His hair was slightly disheveled, like he had come straight from bed. But his posture was pure instinct: alert, protective, deadly.
“Where is he?” he demanded in a low, dangerous voice.
I shook too hard to form a word.
His gaze swept the room in quick movements—the corners, the windows, the closet door, the balcony, the bathroom entrance. He assessed every possible threat in seconds.
“There’s no one here,” he muttered. Then his eyes landed on me, and his expression shifted.
His gaze softened. He lowered his gun slowly to his side.
“Nina,” he said, crossing the room in long strides. “Hey. Look at me.”
I gasped, my fingers digging into the sheets. I couldn’t stop trembling.
He placed the gun on the bedside table without taking his eyes off me.
His large hands were warm and steady as they cupped my face.
“Breathe.”
I tried, but it came out broken.
“I... I—” I stammered.
“It was a dream,” he said firmly. “You’re safe.”
Safe. I was safe.
Tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them. I hated crying in front of anyone.
He climbed onto the bed and drew me against his chest as if it were the most natural thing to do.
For a second, I stiffened.
We had shared tension, heat, and arguments. But this was different.
His arms wrapped around me completely, one hand pressing firmly against the back of my head, tucking my face beneath his chin. The other circled my waist, anchoring me.
“Slow breaths,” he murmured into my hair.
I clutched his shirt without thinking, my fist twisting into the fabric. He didn’t comment on it.
My body continued to shake, small tremors I couldn’t control. He shifted slightly, adjusting his grip so I was half draped over him, my leg tangled with his.
“You heard me scream,” I managed.
“I thought someone broke in.” He had come armed, ready to kill for me.
The realization sent something strange through my chest.
I buried my face deeper against him, inhaling his scent. His cologne was dark and clean, something woodsy with a faint spice beneath it. It grounded me enough to know it was real.
Minutes passed. Maybe more, but I lost track of time.
My breathing gradually evened out. The tremors lessened, fading into occasional shivers. His thumb traced absent circles against my back in a steady rhythm.
Exhaustion crept in as the adrenaline drained away. My limbs grew heavy. My eyelids burned.
He shifted slightly beneath me, adjusting the pillow behind his head. He hadn’t made any move to leave.
“You can go back to your room,” I murmured weakly, though I didn’t loosen my grip.
He let out a quiet breath that might have been amusement.
“I’m fine.” There was no arrogance in it. Just fact.
I listened to his heartbeat again.
It was ridiculous how much comfort that simple sound gave me.
The nightmare felt further away now, as if it had been pushed beyond the walls of the room. It couldn’t reach me there because he would have destroyed it if it tried.
Sleep pulled at me gently this time, my fingers relaxed against his shirt.
“Malachi,” I whispered, half-conscious.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
There was a pause, then his arm tightened around me briefly.
“Go to sleep, Nina.”
And I did.
***
Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, warm and golden. My eyes opened slowly, and I was alone.
The other side of the bed was empty. The sheets were slightly rumpled, the pillow faintly indented where his head must have rested.
A strange disappointment flickered through me before I could suppress it.
Of course he had left. Morning changed things. Night allowed softness that daylight did not.
But he hadn’t taken everything with him; his scent lingered. It was everywhere—on the pillow beneath my cheek, woven into the sheets, clinging faintly to my hair. Dark cedar, clean spice, and him.
I closed my eyes briefly and inhaled.
My hand slid over the space he had occupied hours earlier. The mattress was cool now, but the memory of his arms around me remained vivid.
As I sat up, pulling the sheets around me, I realized something undeniable. For the first time since my family died, I hadn’t woken up alone.
And maybe that mattered more than I cared to admit.
- Writer
